Svea
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: The Kingdom of Sweden-Norway: Berwald Oxenstierna, Lukas Bondevik- and one more. / SuNor OFC. This is my current pride and joy so words escape me. But if you liked my other SuNor, you're gonna like this too.
1. Chapter 1

**Svea**  
_Svea is a female Swedish name derived from svea,  
__meaning "of the Swedes",  
as in Svea rike ("kingdom of the Swedes"),  
an older form of Sverige (Swedish for Sweden).  
Mother Svea is the female personification of Sweden._

**1.**

"Why?" Lukas asks, both men's eyes set on the nurse. Lukas's blue dress is the same color as Berwald's suit, gold accents reminiscent of the Swedish flag. Behind them the window looks out onto the dark landscape, useless in the winter months. Several decades have passed since he came to live here.

"It is my duty," the Swede replies, still looking forward. His tone is flat, the same voice he uses when discussing leaving for meetings in Stockholm or speaking of Swedish history. There's a little bit of pride, a lot of humility, and something akin to acceptance that this is what they're life is: out of their control.

"No it is not, beloved," and Norwegian eyes look up into the set face that is only a little softer in the firelight. Those eyes will not leave the nurse at work.

"I made a promise," the Swede finally whispers in hushed Norwegian.

"You do not owe any mortal anything."

Sea-green eyes come down to look at him behind delicate glasses, as if Berwald is seeing his lover for the first time. Lukas knows there is still the occasional mortal lover, normally female since the smaller nation has come to share his bed. They mean nothing to Lukas so he lets Berwald do as he must to keep up appearances. He cannot blame the Swedish women that fall for their nation incarnate, that he must court and kiss and pretend to love before breaking their hearts in the most delicate of ways, leaving them in the wrong and other women seeking to comfort Berwald in his perceived time of need.

This one was different.

"Yes, Lukas, I do."

"You are not that child's father," he says, growing indignant. Why must the largest nation always be so stubborn in all the most loving of ways?

"I know, beloved."

"Then why?" He's still yet to answer the original question, or even to look at Lukas, really look at him liked he normally does. But then Berwald sighs, his whole body turning to face the Norwegian, taking him in with sad eyes that are almost defeated. "What duty do you owe that babe?"

"Her mother," Berwald starts, hand on a window sill as he looks out into the darkness beyond, "was very dear to me. She was sweet and kind and humble and worthy of respect. I employed her when her husband left for battle."

"Why did I never meet her then?"

Berwald shrugs despite knowing the answer. "I normally saw her before her marriage, at home. When her husband left she came to me for protection. She stayed in my quarters." Lukas has never seen Berwald's quarters; for years now the larger man has slept instead with him, in the tower set aside for his Norwegian ward. "I think she wished to hide from the world; she never said."

The nurse lifts the baby from the cradle, rocking it back and forth. Lukas hates the child already.

"Before she gave birth the letter came, saying her husband had died. There were already whispers that she was my mistress; she could not return home from my castle pregnant. I told her I would care for her and the child always."

"She is dead," Lukas states flatly.

"She is dead," Berwald agrees. "I promised to care for that child, beloved. It is my duty." They watch the nurse approach, cradling the child in her arms, before bowing to Berwald and handing him the bundle. Large arms take the baby from her, holding her carefully with a hand supporting her head. She almost seems to disappear in his arms, the baby so small and Berwald so big. The nurse bows once more before stepping out to give them alone time with the newborn.

"Did she live long enough to name the child?" Berwald shakes his head. "Then what will you name her?" Lukas asks quietly.

But his words go unheard as the Swede lifts his arms to look closer at his new daughter. The Norwegian tries to see her too but it is difficult to do without looking obvious; besides, the babe is not what is so interesting to him. It is Berwald's face, now so open and amazed. His eyes are soft, showing the small lines he has around them, his mouth hinting at the happiness in his heart. The sight makes Lukas's own heart race, to see his lover so in love, so beautiful like this. Gentle lips come down to kiss the baby's forehead, the girl cooing.

"I never imagined you with a daughter," Lukas admits. Without looking up Berwald's grin becomes lopsided, showing his amusement and agreement.

"Neither did I, beloved."

* * *

The nurse comes less and less each week, Berwald carefully watching her and what she does, Lukas carefully watching him and and what he does. Part of the Norwegian nation wants to bring his Swedish lover's attention back to him and solely him, because he doesn't care for mortal beings. They used to make love every night, pass every evening in the same bed. Now Berwald comes sporadically, staying up in his chambers with the child that Lukas will not allow to sleep in his room because of the incessant crying.

But to watch the large man with the small girl, baptized Freja Erika Oxenstierna, Lukas cannot hate her. Something in him that he wants only to suppress stirs when he watches them, sitting before the fireplace. Berwald whispers sweet things to the girl, too low for his lover to follow entirely, catching only words here and there before he kisses her. Berwald holds her while she is awake, lets her lay on his chest when she sleeps, her father's arms always protective of her as if he could stop the death that draws closer each day for her.

Mortals live on borrowed time. Lukas knows Berwald counts each day as a blessing, forgetting that he and Lukas are also living on borrowed time.

* * *

Berwald is at a meeting several months later. As the baby has grown she has become less needy; Lukas allows her to be carried through his chambers, though she still does not spend the night. With her father out of the house the Norwegian makes his decision, sneaking down the hall to find his Swedish lord's chambers he has never seen.

His bedroom is unsurprisingly as vast as his lands and body, a fireplace on either end roaring. In the middle is an intricate four-poster bed and Lukas knows immediately who carved that wood, his fingers running over it as he steps up onto the bed's platform. The sheets are deep blue, trimmed in gold fabric. Lukas is surprised by the pillows though, which are patterned on various flags: the one that flew during the Kalmar Union; the Danish flag, for so long what Lukas stood under; his lover's own Swedish flag; his recently adopted, rarely used Norwegian flag; and the flags used to represent both Norway and Finland under Swedish rule. He steps forward to knock the Finnish pillow to the ground before moving on.

Like the bed the cradle is carved wood, its pattern intricate but more delicate than the bed's. Peering over the side Lukas finds the golden sheets wrapped around the sleeping babe, a pale blue pillow beneath her head and a cross hanging above. There's a glint of something and the Norwegian leans down to see a small bracelet tied about one of her wrist's, gold with a small band of what looks like painted blue. That's when the babe shifts.

It startles him for a moment as she turns her head. His face still close to her body, Lukas sees her smack her lips in her sleep, the same way Berwald does. It takes a few moments to realize he's holding his breath because it's something the Norwegian nation has only ever seen his Swedish lover do, and already the little girl Berwald calls his daughter is so like him. It's probably just a coincidence, though he knows the other man would call it Fate.

There's a commotion outside the window that signals Berwald has returned earlier than expected. Lukas stands slowly and lets one hand run gently along the girl's cheek, her skin so soft like her father's temperament when he's holding her. As he leaves the room Lukas wants so much to hate her.

He wants to.

* * *

They're laying in the grass by the lake, Berwald's jacket beneath Lukas. The larger man has his eyes closed as the Norwegian takes him in, lounging on his side. His one hand is propping up his head; the other is being held tightly in the little girl's grip.

She's sitting up now, and getting better at walking. She's grown, so much, and it feels like it's only been days to Lukas though he knows it has been much longer. Freja's other hand (the one that hasn't claimed Lukas) is on her father's face, fingers poking into his eyes, one up a nostril. Berwald's glasses have been safely moved to rest on top of Lukas's head to keep them from the little girl's grip.

"Pwah pah!" Freja says to Lukas.

"Indeed," he replies lazily, fighting the twitch in the corner of his mouth, the one that wants to bring his lips up to form a smile. Freja's grown on him, he has to admit. He still hates when Berwald spends nights with her; the thunder that so scares his daughter most excites his lover. But there is something in the little Swede that Lukas cannot deny, something part Berwald but also part angelic.

The little one's hand moves over her father's mouth. As the Swede's lips kiss her hand the girl announces loudly, "Papa!"

Berwald's eyes shoot open, quickly trying to focus on his daughter's face despite his missing glasses. Lukas sits up immediately, his grip on Freja's hand having tightened. Startled the girl looks at her father, than Lukas, before returning to her father's face and smiling.

"Papa!" she says once more.

Two strong arms come to wrap around the girl, pulling her to her father's chest as he sits up. Berwald's lips find her head, kissing the light blonde hair over and over. "Freja," Lukas hears him murmuring into her hair with each kiss. "My little Freja."

"Papa!" This time those bright blue eyes are fixed on Lukas, her gaze peaking out from her father's grip.

"Indeed," Lukas concedes, and he allows himself to smile this time.

* * *

For her third birthday they go to Stockholm for the first time in Freja's short life. It had been so long since Lukas had left the countryside castle; he hadn't realized how close to the Norwegian-Swedish border it had been. The girl sits quietly in her father's lap the whole time, whispering and cooing to him. Berwald rubs her back contently, his eyes closed most of the journey. Lukas knows Berwald loves Freja, and that he must love the Norwegian too to allow him to share in such an intimate moment. That thought alone calms his insecurities that sometimes well up in him, that perhaps Berwald still prefers Timo, that Freja will replace Lukas, who was only ever a replacement to begin with.

* * *

Normally Berwald is very strict about what they eat. Lukas knows it's partly that Berwald still feels he must stay in the best physical condition possible, always ready to set off for war against Denmark. But it's also because he wants Freja to grow up strong, to have a long life that only humans on strict diets obtain. The Norwegian rarely complains about the food, because a part of him wants to watch the sweet Swedish girl grow old too.

But today, today there are seemingly no rules. They have cake, and pastries, and imported chocolate. There are gifts after gifts and some of them (well, most of them) are from Berwald but there are others as well. Some are from Lukas, which make Freja's face light up in delight and wins the smaller nation chaste kisses from the doting father. Others are from officials who visit the far-away castle, have seen the little girl though they have never reported her existence here in the capital. And there are even a few with names from other countries, countries Lukas was vaguely aware Berwald communicated with but had never truly allied himself with: a beautiful dress from Francis Bonnefoy, a book of old stories from Matthew Williams, a hand-drawn watercolor from Lili Vogel.

Lukas doesn't miss the thrown-away gift bearing the name « Ivan Braginski ». The letters are straight, upright, too well formed for a man who uses a different alphabet.

Lukas remembers Berwald teaching Timo to write those letters.

Two weak arms wrap around his side before the face looks up from under the light blonde hair. Freja's smile is wide, so wide that Lukas often finds himself wondering if it hurts to smile like that the way she does, as often as she does. But she keeps on smiling before saying in very loud Swedish, "I love you Lulu!"

From across the pile of presents Berwald watches them, Lukas picking Freja up to sit her in his lap, kissing her hair and closing his eyes. "I love you too Freja," he whispers as her arms come around his neck.

His words make the girl giggle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Svea**

**2.**

"Lord Oxenstierna," the servant pleads once more at her master's door. No response comes.

Lukas, done with waiting for the servants to do this the polite way, pushes the woman aside and tries to open the door. Locked. He jiggles the handle once again, becoming more and more infuriated, before he stomps one foot down and breathes in deeply. "Björn Steirnung," he says forcefully, switching to Old Norse and his lover's old name to communicate fully what he's trying to say. "Open the door. Now."

There's a silence that follows, the servants stunned that someone would talk to their lord and master like that. Then there's a gentle click and Lukas lets himself slip in, locking the door behind him. Berwald's already retreated back to the bed.

Clothes lay all over the floor, in a messy way he's never seen the Swede exhibit before. He was always such a neat freak, everything squared off and neatly put away. The windows are thrown open haphazardly, too, the curtains blowing in the summer breeze. Lukas hears Freja's laugh from the balcony as he steps to the bed, where Berwald is laying on the sheets, a dead look in his eyes. He's in only his chemise and pants; it looks like he hasn't shaved in days.

"Beloved," the Norwegian sighs, one hand running over the foot of the bed. His tone becomes lighter at the sight because as angry as he was with the larger man for locking himself in his room like a child, he cannot stay mad at him when he looks so pitiful like this. And Lukas knows before Berwald explains what caused the sudden depression; there's only ever been one person who could do this to him, could rip out his heart and shatter it into a million pieces on the floor without any effort.

"Got a letter," Berwald murmurs dully. The Norwegian nods. "From Timo." He nods once more. No words follow that.

Sitting down, Lukas reaches out to take his lover's hand. Though nothing else in the Swede changes, Berwald's grip is tight, desperate, as he continues to stare straight ahead.

Another laugh comes in from the balcony, and the smaller nation catches sight of the sweet little girl spinning in a happy circle, her face turned up to the summer sun. His heart melts at the sight, so innocent and perfect. He knows that for Berwald to still feel so depressed while his daughter is playing means that whatever Timo wrote must have been serious. Or maybe it's just that the letter came from the long-silent Finn the Swede had put so much time into.

His mind makes his decision, the Norwegian standing suddenly. With one last look on his depressed lover he makes his way to the balcony, scooping the little girl up into his arms. "Freja," he whispers. Her face lights up as she nods. "Shall we walk by the lake?"

"With Papa, Lulu?" she asks hopefully. Lukas shakes his head.

"Just you and me, if that is fine by you."

Freja thinks for a moment, her chin sticking out just the way her father's does when he contemplates something. "Yes!" she announces suddenly, throwing her arms about the man's neck and hugging him.

One hand rubbing her back, Lukas carries Freja through her father's room. Without a word he unlocks the door, stepping out, closing it behind him. "Leave," he says to the servants, and with that the two head outside.

* * *

For nearly three weeks Lukas doesn't see Berwald. Freja's bedroom being attached to her father's, the Norwegian supposes he could go and sit with his lover while putting the girl to bed. But instead he decides to let Freja stay with him, tucking the girl in early and reading by the fire while she drifts to sleep.

They're out by the lake when two large hands slide over his shoulders and down his chest, a chin coming to rest on his shoulder. They silently watch the little Swedish girl splash in the water of the lake's bank, enjoying the rare joy of being given pants to wear, before Berwald shifts to sit beside him. An arm wraps around his waist and so Lukas rests his head on his companion's shoulder.

"I am sorry," the Swede starts. When nothing happens at those words, he continues. "I was not expecting a letter, from Timo. He- he left without a word."

"Did he share your bed?" Lukas asks out of nowhere.

"Yes," the man breathes. The Norwegian had figured as such, that that was why he had his own chambers: so Berwald didn't lay in the same bed with Lukas as he had with Timo. "I- I still love him," he finally manages, and the Swedish nation's whole body sags as he says the words, as if a great weight has been lifted from him with that confession. "I have never stopped loving him. I had believed I had gotten over it, moved on, with you, because I have always loved you, since before Timo. But perhaps I was, once more, mistaken."

A high-pitched giggle reverberates in the hidden-away valley of the castle, Freja's hands coming to splash up water as she crouches down. With a sudden joy she stands up straight, bouncing from foot to foot. The two men watch her simple happiness as they contemplate heavy things.

"I am sorry," Berwald says once more, this time turning to look at his lover. His sea-green eyes seem so lost behind his glasses, as if he's drowning. And maybe he is, Lukas thinks, maybe he's drowning in all these feelings they refuse to speak of, all the things that for centuries they left unsaid, left to grow and gnaw at their insides. "I am sorry that I do not love you more than I do, that I do not love just you."

Fingers find his lips, shushing his words. "You love me," Lukas states simply. "That is all I need." And then he kisses him, deeply, because there are so many things they do not have words for but that they try to communicate through their kisses. Arms wrap around necks and backs as they pull each other closer, never close enough, until they sense someone small coming to stand beside them.

A Norwegian forehead rests against a Swedish one as the father takes in his daughter. "Yes Freja?"

"Are you sad Papa?"

Berwald chuckles once to himself, the sensation reverberating through Lukas's body, before one arm wraps around Freja and the Swede pulls the three of them close. "Not anymore beloved," he says to his daughter before kissing her forehead, laying his head on her shoulder. Small hands pat her father's head.

* * *

Commotion in the courtyard causes Berwald to run suddenly to the window, Freja climbing onto Lukas's lap. "What is it?" the Norwegian asks lazily. They hadn't been expecting any visitors.

But then his eyes sweep over the sitting room to take in the large nation as he stands, tense, at the window. His arms are locked, his grip tight on the window sill.

"What is it?" Lukas repeats as Freja finally settles in on his legs, pulling her tightly to his chest instinctively. Such actions have long ago become normal for her, the little girl seemingly thinking nothing of it.

His eyes are wide when the Swede turns back to look at him. "Christen Densen," Berwald says in one breath.

Bloody hell!, his mind screams as Lukas stands, taking Freja with him; the girl giggles. Both men leave the room quickly, Berwald most likely to meet the uninvited Dane, Lukas with only the slightest idea of what he is about to do.

"Bad," the Swede keeps repeating under his breath. "Bad, bad, this is bad." There are so many things they say in this castle that they can say no where else, secrets here for just the two quiet Nords. If their secrets were to be discovered by Denmark, by Christen- "Bad," Berwald says once more.

At the bottom of the stairs Berwald goes left, stopping suddenly to say something. But Lukas has already gone right, Freja waving goodbye to her father over his shoulder. The Norwegian doesn't stop until he's gone out the back of the castle, through the small courtyard, and entered the horses' stable. One of the servants quickly saddles up Lukas's horse before the nation puts the little girl on, getting on behind her.

They ride out into the Swedish countryside, Lukas only vaguely aware of where he's going until he sees it in the distance, stone ruins of building from centuries ago. Freja's gone quiet in his arms, looking up at his face every once and a while. But the five year old makes no objections when they finally stop, the man climbing down first and helping her place her feet on the ground. Lukas isn't sure yet if he's happy or sad to know that Freja has picked up his and Berwald's tendency towards silence over playful banter.

* * *

Hours pass as Freja explores the ruins of the old castle, a once-strong stone structure built to replace the previous wooden Viking stronghold. This was the first place he kissed Berwald, when the Swede was nine and he was eight. They had giggled then, not quite sure what they'd done; Lukas has never forgotten that day, that moment, that little boy he first loved, the man he still loves.

"Look Lulu!" the girl declares from above his head, Norwegian arms stretched up to catch her should she fall from where she's standing on the crumbling wall. But Lukas cannot see what she's pointing at, helping her down as someone comes around the once-proud tower. It's Berwald.

Freja runs to her father, leaping into his arms as he pulls her up, high, to hug her and kiss her hair. Several minutes pass like that, Lukas only watching, before Freja is placed down to run about some more. That's when the Swede steps forward and he falls into Berwald's arms, kissing him passionately with a desperation that had been building for so long inside both of them.

All the fears he hadn't realized he had had melt away suddenly, the Swede whispering over and over, "He is gone, everything is alright now, Densen is gone." He kisses all over Berwald's face, his nose, his necks, his forehead, his eyelids, pulling the glasses off to hold in his hand. Lukas wraps his arms around the other's neck, pulling him closer though the angle is awkward for the larger man. "He is gone, we are safe now Lukas, we are safe."

When he finally relents in his kissing the Norwegian feels those two arms around him turn him so his back presses into Berwald, arms slung low around his stomach holding him in place. Together they watch Freja take in the tallest tower left.

"Thank you," Berwald whispers. Lukas knows it is meant for having taken Freja from the castle, from where Christen might have found her. No one else has seen the little girl.

"I do not want to share," Lukas says suddenly. The man behind him tenses before nodding for him to go on. "I do not want to share you anymore, with anyone else. And I-" He sighs, his eyes falling closed for just a moment. "I do not want to share Freja either."

Lips turn to press into the side of his head, becoming an upturned smile. "Have you come to love my daughter?" Berwald teases, kissing his head. He can tell the man's eyes are closed from the way he speaks; it's subtle, but there's a difference in his tone when the Swede speaks while seeing and when he speaks without being able to see. But Lukas's eyes are trained on Freja as she runs to pet the horse.

"Yes," he gasps suddenly, as if realizing it for the first time. "She is so perfect Berwald, like no one else has ever been." The man nods against him. "I love her, beloved, as if she was my own."

"She is," Berwald whispers in his ear. "She is our daughter Lukas; she always has been, and always will be. Ours, forever."

"Forever," he echoes as Freja runs to them happily.

"Forever!" she screams without seeming to understand to what the word was spoken.

* * *

They stay at the castle this year, the local villagers bringing gifts for the unseen birthday girl they have never met. Lukas knows it is because they fear Berwald, because they and they alone understand that he is immortal and powerful and can make their lives easier or harder with the snap of his fingers.

But it's become dangerous with so many people knowing of Freja, who still hasn't been reported to the Swedish king. Her seventh birthday all Lukas can do is worry: worry that Christen will return, worry that officials will arrive suddenly, worry that one of the servants or villagers will dare turn away from cold and heartless Lord Oxenstierna and reveal his master's secret. The Norwegian would do anything, anything, to stop that from coming to pass.

When the end of the day comes, nothing has happened to put their daughter in danger. Once she's been put to bed, Lukas watches his lover sigh deeply, their eyes meeting from across the room. Nothing had happened today, but the risk is ever-present.

* * *

Several months later the letter finally comes, the one that starts off, "To that fucking bastard Oxenstierna," and ends with, "You were never going to be given permission to keep the child. Surrender her tomorrow morning or we will take everything from you and that Norwegian whore." The body of the letter is strongly worded, to say the least.

Berwald in his office shakes in rage, in fear, in hatred like Lukas hasn't seen in so long. The man shakes, balling the letter up in his hand, his eyes out the window; in the light swords and axes glistening on the walls. But the Swede was always a vicious and unpredictable Viking, bloodthirsty, unstoppable. It's like they've unleashed a sleeping beast, and the Norwegian would hate to ever admit aloud that to watch Berwald shakes like that scares him.

He never asks if he'll fight to keep Freja. It'd be the stupidest question of all.

* * *

That night had taken all Lukas's energy to try and calm Berwald, who was desperate and frightened, masking it with overzealous actions and too forceful passion in their bed. Lukas knows that come morning the Swede will apologize for having been like that, for not having loved and lavished his lover gently, but Lukas also knows he won't be there to hear the apology.

In his arms the Norwegian listens to Berwald's breathing, that muscled chest rising and falling beneath him. When he's sure the larger man is out for good tonight, he sits up, taking in the man. For all his flaws, and Lukas knows just how many Berwald has, the man is as close to perfect as he could ever find in all their centuries. So he kisses him deeply, lovingly, his heart beating quickly, the sleepy Swede responding instinctively before falling back into his slumber.

Silently Lukas dresses, packing the last of his things into his hidden bag. Silently he makes his way through the castle to Freja, rousing her and helping her dress quickly. Silently he finishes with her things as well, having started their packing during the day as the girl's father lashed out on trees with his swords. Silently they make their way out through the back courtyard, to the horses in their stables, setting out from the Oxenstierna stronghold as the sun starts to rise.

Freja never asks any questions, her own horse keeping her close to Lukas. And the nation never gives any answers, because at seven she's old enough to understand some things but not others, but she's also smart enough to understand what had happened in the day. Once more the Norwegian regrets that she learned her silence and introverted nature from the two nations, regrets what else she must have lost when Freja grew out of the extroverted child who called him Lulu and would leap into her father's arms and was flawlessly innocent.

* * *

It takes them three days in the bitter cold to pass from Sweden into Norway, heading slightly north to an old, abandoned castle just over the border. Lukas starts the fire in the master's chambers, where they settle in for the rest of the week, the little girl silently assisting him and doing what he asks of her.

Freja sleeps in his arms mostly. He tells her tales of when he and Berwald were Vikings, of when they were children; once she smiles against his arm.

Once.

* * *

He's lost track of how many days it's been when Lukas wakes in Berwald's arms before the fireplace, Freja still in his own arms. The Swede kisses the back of his head in recognition that he is now awake.

In quiet Swedish the Norwegian asks, "How did you find us?"

"Please, Lukas," Berwald sighs, "you do not give me enough credit some days for how well I know you."

"Did you know?"

"That you would leave?" There's a pause, a log in the fire cracking in two, Freja shifting to rest her head under Lukas's chin. "When you kissed me in the night, I knew. You've done it before Bondevik. Like I said, I know you well."

Lukas chuckles inwardly at that. He knows he should have left without the kiss, but the temptation had been too strong, Berwald too beautiful. When the Northern Lion sleeps his face relaxes, is soft without his lined glasses obscuring his sweet eyes. The skin on his cheeks are Lukas's favorite, the way they feel under his fingers, the creamy color and slight blush. It's like Berwald is drawing Lukas to him, though he knows the man rarely means to when he sleeps. He is simply a magnet the Norwegian nation has always been drawn to.

"Did she cry?" the father whispers as Freja shifts again.

Did she cry? Of course she did, they both know she did, so Lukas doesn't answer. She hadn't the first night here, but in the morning Lukas had found her crying on the unused bed. That time she had said nothing beyond gasps of "Lulu" and "Papa" and "please". Several nights later the pained words had begun to resemble more sentences, about not being taken away, why would they do that, why does the government care so much what Papa and Lulu do?

What Lukas had realized, beyond how much of her father's screaming she had heard, was how careless they had been in what they said before her. Though they had never addressed the issue of their immortality directly, Freja seemed to understand some small part of what was going on with their officials' involvement.

"We have to tell her," Lukas whispers. Against his back Berwald becomes stiff.

"No, we do not."

"Yes," Lukas sighs, closing his eyes once more. Just a few more hours of sleep and he would be ready for whatever argument this would bring on, but Freja was no longer solely innocent. She understood some things; now she'd have to understand it all. This was a battle the Norwegian could not let his Swedish lover win. "We both know it is time."

"Too early," Berwald mutters into the crook of his neck. "Came too soon." One of Lukas's hands goes back to rest on his lover's head. "My little Freja."

* * *

Winter is approaching; there is no other option than to return home. Freja rarely leaves Lukas now, clinging to his clothing. But no government official has come yet to take the girl away, only to try and calm the warrior nation she calls Papa.

One day Berwald bursts into the bathroom, which has Freja shrieking for her father doing such things while she was changing. But the Swede is too overjoyed, picking up Lukas and swinging him about in his strong arms, making circles across the floor as the seven year old pulls on her robe.

"What is it?" Lukas gasps, no air left in his lungs. He's put down so that Berwald can swing his daughter about.

"They gave in!" he yells before pulling Freja to him so they are face to face. "They gave in," he whispers. "They gave in."

* * *

After dinner the servants are sent home early, the family enjoying time spent together without further worry. And once Freja's gone to bed, Lukas and Berwald continue the celebration in private, with wine and their bed and words that they would normally not admit out loud.

Because the officials had given in, and Freja Erika Oxenstierna could stay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Svea**

**3.**

It's the first time Lukas has been in Kristiania in years. The sudden return to Norwegian in speech, in writing, in being the one who belongs and Berwald being the outsider, all set him slightly on edge. He hates to admit it, never would out loud, but it makes him feel uncomfortable to no longer belong in his own capital. But Freja had wanted to come, and after eleven birthdays passed in Sweden her father had relented that perhaps the twelfth one could be spent in the other half of the united kingdoms of Sweden and Norway.

They go sight seeing: to places Lukas once knew, to places Berwald had seen before, to places Freja has never visited. The girl talks incessantly but neither men stop her, glad to see days like these where she is happy and talkative and just like the little girl she once was without a care in the world.

The gifts, as usual, come: the ones from servants, from government officials, from the few countries who know of Freja's existence though they do not know she is Berwald's daughter; most were told she was his ward but lived separately in Stockholm where servants cared for her. The gifts from Russia are thrown out immediately, the ones wrapped the colors of the Danish flag opened and rewrapped once they are deemed appropriate gifts. Several gifts come for Berwald himself, congratulatory gifts. One comes for Lukas.

"What's that?" Freja asks too excitedly as Berwald hands the Norwegian his present. Lukas shrugs. "Well open it Lulu, see who it's from!" the girl insists.

Two small trinkets lay in the package, each painstakingly wrapped in neat paper: the first, newer, is a locket on a long gold chain, the cover painted the colors of the Swedish-Norwegian union flag; the second is ancient, a near-forgotten relic that immediately comes back to Lukas's mind.

"Berwald," he gasps, shocked that such a thing still exists, refusing to look up. He can hear Freja looking between her father and him, can sense that Berwald has yet to move.

It's an old pendant, the chain it once hung on from the Norwegian neck surely long lost. But the pendant itself is from the first time Sweden and Norway had been united, centuries earlier, a small period of time but a happy one nonetheless in Lukas's memory. Turning it over in his hands his mind fills with memories of the night Berwald had given it to him, the first time they had stolen kisses fully understanding that implication, the first time they had been lovers.

An old pendant from a forgotten union, and a new pendant for a new one.

Open, searching eyes look up to meet those the color of the sea, and at that the Swede cracks a smile, leaning forward to kiss Lukas. Freja stays quiet until they part, looking at the gifts in his hand. "Well?" she asks and the Norwegian knows exactly what she is asking.

He slips the new pendant around his neck, cradling the old one between his hands protectively. When he steals a look at his lover he doesn't miss that same smirk of pride Berwald had worn during that first, near-forgotten union.

* * *

He hasn't left the teenager's room in days now, trading off with Berwald to steal sleep on his master's large bed. Freja can seemingly not tell the difference regardless, her fever burning up her whole body. Berwald slaves over work all day, staying up at night to stand vigil over his sick daughter. But Lukas, he hasn't left in days.

Sometimes he plays the small piano in her room, the one he would play for Freja while she sang songs her father loves. Sometimes he looks through her unfinished embroideries: a new handkerchief for her father, a floral cravat for Lukas, a pillow with intricate patterns based on Norse mythology.

But most of the time he lays his head beside hers on the mattress, watching her sleep, hearing her whimpers. He holds her hand all that time and hates the world for creating something so beautiful, so perfect, so fragile. Hates the world for giving him and Berwald someone to love, together, but someone who is mortal. Who will one day die, maybe in fifty years, maybe tomorrow, but someday.

A hand on his shoulder signals that Berwald is ready to switch. Exhausted Lukas rises, running a hand down the Swede's chest, his forehead against the larger man's shoulder. And with that he leaves, falling onto a Swedish bed. He doesn't even care that he grabs the Finnish pillow, just pulls it to his head and cries his silent tears.

Lukas hates the world; there are only two beautiful things in it, and now one has a fever that could kill her.

* * *

"You look…," Berwald starts, his voice trailing off as they watch their daughter descend the stairs. Lukas can only stare in wonderment as well.

Beautiful does not begin to describe the sight. Freja's long, blonde hair is pulled partially up, curls cascading down her neck and over her shoulders. A large, jeweled comb in her hair bringing out the colors in her face crowns her head. And Freja's dress is long, deep blue in color like the sapphires around her neck. Her gloves are the purest white, the same as her shoes that peak out as she reaches the bottom of the staircase.

Freja is tall, standing slightly taller than Lukas. She is thin, used to physical activities passed outside with her two fathers and meals more sparse than lavish, but she is also soft and feminine with fluttering eyelashes and small breasts.

Not a bad first impression for her first ball in Stockholm, Lukas things to himself, an event held to commemorate her sixteenth birthday. The young lady takes her father's offered arm, Lukas following the procession into the ballroom where all eyes rightfully fall on the beautiful Swedish noblewoman.

* * *

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Lukas asks while reviewing the girl's dance card; every slot had been filled, quickly, with the names of the finest men Sweden had to offer. Freja's name is the most beautiful on the paper though, less written and more drawn like a piece of art.

The Swede giggles from her bed, laying on her stomach and watching him. "Oh Lulu," she sighs happily, "it was amazing. I loved it."

"They loved you," he concedes, placing the dance card down and taking in the sweet young thing. With her hair down she looks possibly more radiant, because as beautiful as Freja is dressed up she is so much more naturally.

"Do you think Papa was happy?" she asks hopefully, her eyebrows raised in anticipation of a good answer.

On the one hand, Freja had been even more well received than either Berwald or Lukas had anticipated, everyone asking after this hidden gem of Swedish high society. On the other hand Berwald had only ever had to share his precious daughter with Lukas; the Norwegian is aware of how unprepared his Swedish lover had been to expand that circle.

"Yes," he finally says, "he was very happy and very proud. I am sure we will discuss it more in the morning-" he rises, walking to where Freja moves to lay under the sheets "-over breakfast, so let us say goodnight now then my dear." His lips kiss her forehead.

"Goodnight Lulu."

"Goodnight Freja."

On the way out he hears a cough, turning to see Freja getting a drink of water while he closes the door. Berwald is already waiting in the hallway to escort the smaller nation to the master bedroom; the thought makes him shiver with anticipation and lust.

* * *

The coughing had been going on for weeks before Lukas realized it. He has to give Freja her due credit: she had been very good at hiding it but then again, Lukas was an expert at hiding the truth as well.

"You're sick," he says from behind her in the music room. Freja startles on the couch by the window; her gaze had been out to the lake. "Freja," he warns.

Her face turns sad suddenly, heartbroken, lost. "Lulu," she whispers as he comes to sit beside her. Lukas takes her head and pulls it to his chest, the same thing he has done ever since they ran away to Norway. "I am sorry."

"Why did you not have your father send-"

"-for the doctor?" she finishes. Sitting up she looks him in the eyes and Lukas resigns himself for whatever horrible truth she is about to reveal. "Because I went in Stockholm. Because he said I was ill and that there was little he could do for me. He said I should become use to being sick, all the time."

Something fills the room in the time between when she finishes speaking and Lukas commences: something heavy, something that presses down on them, in their chests, as if trying to rip their hearts out.

"And what," he starts, swallowing and trying to calm emotions he had not expected to spring up at such an announcement, "shall I tell your father?"

"Nothing!" she screams, her hands grabbing his. "Please! Lulu, please! It would kill Papa, you know that!" While the Norwegian actually knows it would be quite impossible to kill her father, he understands Freja's meaning all the same. Berwald is sensitive; though he does not show it in public, his private life can so easily be tipped one way or the other, from a simple misspoken word or a name unintentionally uttered aloud.

It would not kill him, but it would irrevocably crush him.

* * *

An accident, that's what Berwald screams, an accident is how he finds out his precious daughter, the light of his life, is sick. An accident that he'd spilled ink on a paper, that he'd gotten frustrated and gone to stand by the window of his office. An accident that he'd been there to see Lukas and Freja walking, seen how she leaned on him and how she coughed. An accident, and Lukas had let that happen.

The Norwegian sits quietly, letting the other rage because it must be someone's fault and Christen had always made it his anyway. Berwald, deep down, knows it isn't and Lukas knows he knows that. Knows tomorrow morning the Swede will pull him to him in bed, kissing him and holding him and crying that he never meant those things, that's so he scared of losing Freja.

They both are. In the end Lukas always knew he'd be the one to tell Berwald though, because he couldn't make Freja tell her own father and the doctors had never done anything in their life to warrant seeing the once-Viking riled up and ferocious the way he is now, punching the stone walls over and over.

He should have been afraid of Berwald Oxenstierna but Lukas isn't, simply sits on the edge of the bed, watching his lover pace and yell and punch until the Swede sits heavily beside him, the mattress sagging under his weight. Elbows find knees and his head is placed in his hands, the tears coming quickly as the Swedish nation's whole body shakes in terror and anger and angst. Lukas lets him sit, a lump in his own throat though he's so far succeeded in willing the tears not to come, not to let any of his own emotions show through his face. Now was not his time for fear and pain; he would not take Berwald's moment from him.

Lukas slips his arms around one of the larger's man, kissing his hair softly. The Swede pulls him to his chest, nearly crushing him, so the smaller nation wraps his arms around Berwald's neck and kisses where the skin becomes shoulder, nipping it softly with his teeth.

This is Berwald's moment of need, and Lukas is willing to give him anything he needs in it.

* * *

They discuss everything quietly before a fireplace, Freja's hair braided back as she leans into her father's shoulder. They sit on the floor, on plush rugs and pillows, the way Berwald and Lukas used to and how they raised Freja to sit before the fire too. The hearth was the center of the home for the Norse, the source of life and light and everything; it holds all the answers even still, just as it had a thousand years before this night.

The Norwegian watches the father stroke his daughter's hair, rubbing her arm as she falls asleep against his chest. The main topic had been Freja growing up and what they would do now, what Berwald had promised the girl's mother.

It had been the first time in years they'd discussed the dead Swedish woman, the first time Freja had asked after her. Perhaps when she was younger, with Berwald for a father and Lukas for a… Lukas, no other families to compare hers to, it hadn't really mattered that she had been raised without a mother. But tonight there had been questions only being older had afforded Freja the strength to ask, about her mother leaving court, about how she came to be in Berwald's castle, about her father dying in some foreign land.

Then the question about Berwald and Lukas being different from the other people around her had finally come. All in all she had taken that news well, not so much questioning how they were nations incarnate but more how that made them different, how many others were there like them. Only once had Freja held back in her curiosity when in passing she had mentioned the Duchy of Finland pulling away from Sweden, causing her father to tense; Lukas had covered over the silence by speaking about his brother and the conversation had progressed.

Marriage had been brought up for the first time in years as well, though not exactly in the way the smaller nation had expected. In explaining the lives of nations incarnate one of them (it had been late by then and Lukas cannot for the life of him remember if he had said it or if his lover had) had mentioned that in unions countries were often times married. Freja had asked why they too weren't married.

Now that she's asleep, her breathing even, sea green eyes meet indigo ones in the same silent question: why weren't they married?

* * *

As life goes on, one day becoming the next, Lukas realizes just how beautiful and accomplished their young Freja is. She's tall and thin and feminine with soft eyes and blonde hair and pale skin, a perfect exemplification of feminine Sweden in contrast to her father's masculine representation of the kingdom. Her voice itself has a hidden strength like Berwald's, the kind that is forceful but gentle at the same time. In private she's lively, in public calm and collected.

With no expense spared on her education, Freja speaks several languages fluently or near fluently: Swedish, Norwegian, French, German, Russian. The one she speaks the least well, with a noticeable accent and the occasional grammatical error, is ironically enough Norwegian; she only ever speaks it with Lukas and he doesn't correct her when she makes a mistake with his nation's tongue. Instead he teachers her Old Norse and to hear her young voice say the old words is much more satisfying to him than perfected modern Norwegian.

Musically she plays the piano as gracefully as she dances, singing along with the sound. Sometimes Lukas plays while Freja sings; sometimes Freja plays while Berwald sings. And when she's sick the Norwegian plays the piano for the young woman being held in her father's arms.

Freja had been taught embroidery, a proper past time for an accomplished young lady, and in the evening she works on small pieces that become gifts of, "happy Tuesday Lulu," or, "thank you for letting me win at chess Papa." But more than that she loves sword fighting, not necessarily the most feminine thing they could have taught her but something they had taught her nonetheless. In pants and a loose shirt, her hair braided back, cheeks flushed, Freja really comes alive, jabbing with thin swords at Lukas while her father shouts comments from the sideline. It's physical and keeps her healthy they hope; more than that to see Freja enjoy playing at swords reminds Lukas of his brother.

Today he watches her paint by the window, her father at his desk the subject of her portrait. The lines are not necessarily defined yet; Freja paints in a way that's all her own, the colors beautifully blending together. Lukas sketches her form as she paints, Berwald answering letters, his ears listening to the stroke of the brush and the scratch of the pencil.

Today is the day he decides without a doubt that Freja is perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**Svea**

**4. **

Lukas stands by the window in a suit custom made for today, the colors of the Swedish flag matching the colors of Freja's dress as she stands beside him. Her eyes keep going out the window not in longing but in fear, having been up all night worrying over today. This was it, they both knew it though Berwald had insisted that it wasn't, that he would make sure it all ended well regardless. Lukas and Freja both knew that this was it and deep down, Berwald did too.

"Why is he doing this?" she whispers in hushed Swedish, her lips barely moving. Lazy eyes take her in and Lukas can see a slight blush, a healthy coloring but still a showing of embarrassment and nervousness all the same.

"Because," he replies, his eyes sweeping over the other nations in the room behind them, "they fear him; this way your father can do best by you for you."

In the chairs Berwald and several European nations sit, discussing what exactly the Swede wanted. Lukas had not been surprised by who he'd seen (and not seen) invited, the Austrian the most notable among the group. All kingdoms or duchies or monarchies in some way, all people with languages Freja already spoke or could easily learn. All respectable nations with respectable courts. None of them are Danish.

Francis Bonnefoy is the one guest with nothing to gain since France is no longer a kingdom, but there's something in the Frenchman that Berwald has always seemed to respect and Lukas accepts that. So far the French nation has only asked questions as to what Freja likes, singing and dancing and playing and painting, does she mind the colder weather or would distance from her father be acceptable if it meant a warmer climate? Bonnefoy understands what Berwald is doing and Lukas appreciates that; his lover is not the easiest to comprehend.

Roderich Edelstein seems to only vaguely care for what the true, unspoken intention here is. Lukas wonders what he's even doing here if he seems so bored by the prospect Berwald is proposing when the Norwegian's ears perk up at something said in Austrian German.

"My fiancée feels differently, though I do not understand why."

"Women see the world differently," Bonnefoy says smoothly. "Perhaps the Hungarian's opinion is worth greater consideration than you are giving it."

Edelstein tuts and Lukas wonders how long before Erzsébet Héderváry kills him.

A backward glance is cast over a Swedish shoulder, its intention clear. Lukas shifts so that his back is to the group of men, standing shoulder to shoulder with Freja. "In the end you will pick the man; your father wants you to be happy."

"I don't want to get married," she almost whines as Lukas takes one of her hands. "Why can I not just stay here forever?"

"The world is vast, and we would not be doing you any favors keeping you here." They had explored Europe as young men; Freja has never left Sweden-Norway. It was not something either man was proud of.

There's the sound of shuffling behind them; the discussion is done for today.

* * *

At the large dining room table Bonnefoy says first what the other two men are thinking. "Edelstein's pick is really the best, though I would like to know more of what Lady Elizabeta objects to in him."

"And will it matter," Berwald mutters before sipping at his soup. Lukas nods from the other end of the table in agreement, Freja quiet across from the Frenchman.

"I must say," and Bonnefoy's voice takes on an air to it that Lukas doesn't like but knows is meant to calm the young woman before him, "you are so much more beautiful than I had imagined."

"Thank you," Freja says dutifully in French, her head bowed. Bonnefoy smiles weakly.

"Your father has only ever spoken very highly of you."

"He is my father," she murmurs and Berwald quirks an eyebrow in amusement.

"Even Lord Bondevik has approved of you," Bonnefoy continues smirking, "and God knows he has only ever approved of two other people."

Lukas half-snorts in disgust. "Do not speak as if you know me." Bonnefoy grins knowingly.

"I know Berwald," he states in Swedish, "and he knows you."

Freja suddenly interrupts. "Who were the other two?" Her eyes move from Lukas to Bonnefoy and back.

"His brother," the French nation says and perhaps Lukas had misjudged him, perhaps he really did understand some part of the Norwegian, "and your father."

Indigo eyes look across the table where at its head Berwald sits silently, his hands clasped together under his chin, elbows on the arms of his tall chair. A decision is about to be pronounced.

"I would like to be alone with my daughter," the deep voice states quietly.

* * *

In the hallway Bonnefoy stops him. "She is a flawless woman, you know."

"She is mortal," Lukas counters, heading down the hall to his room.

* * *

She cries in her bed; Freja has refused to let go of Lukas for at least an hour now. Berwald can only sit quietly at the foot of the bed, his hand rubbing her leg. He looks so unsure of himself, filled with guilt and doubt like the Norwegian has never seen his proud, confident lover before. It breaks his heart, makes him clutch their daughter closer to his chest.

"I don't want to go," she moans again, "please, Papa! Please!" She's been begging for days now as the date of the wedding approaches.

And this, he knows, is more than normal pre-wedding fear. It is instead a testament to how sheltered they've kept their little girl, protecting her from a world that was always hellbent on robbing her of her innocence and purity, perfection in an imperfect world. This is about how they've never left her alone, how she's never been without them, never lived with anyone else, never interacted much with other mortals beyond tutors and servants.

This is their doing.

"Papa," she begs again, tears staining her face, her breathing shallow as she gasps the sound. The Swede turns his head away at the sight, his eyes closing, and Lukas knows him enough to know that tears escaped at the sound of his fatherly title.

"I do not want to remember your tears," Berwald says in a hushed tone, trying to mask how weak his voice has become. "We will see one another again in a few weeks. You must be strong-"

"I don't want to be strong!" she screams, pulling at her chemise, and Lukas's instincts have him grabbing her arms to hold her still so that she cannot hurt herself. "I just want to stay with you Papa!"

The shoulders of the man shake as his head dips. How long had it been since he'd seen Berwald Oxenstierna cry? Years at least, maybe centuries; even Timo Väinämöinen leaving had not brought tears. The Norwegian dies a little inside to watch the sight.

"Stop," Lukas says in Freja's ear, the girl stilling against him as he holds her tight. The Swede takes his escape as her head is buried in his chest.

* * *

The agreement had been made in a straightforward manner, Edelstein and his Hungarian fiancée returning to Sweden with the nobleman in question that Freja would marry. And he was a good man in many ways but not spectacular, nothing like the girl's father that all men in her life would be judged by. There's a coolness to him that Lukas sees in Edelstein too, what Héderváry had complained of. Yet the Hungarian is all the same roped into calming Freja, who consents to the man because he is fine with her living in Sweden with her father.

She would go to Austria after the wedding.

She would spend one month there.

She would allow him to visit her when he wanted.

She would give him charge of any sons they had after the age of five.

For all that her body had shaken in anticipation of the event her hand had not as she'd signed the contract, the man beside her smiling lustfully at his future bride. In that moment Lukas had decided he hated the Austrian nobleman.

* * *

Her tears have dried on her face as she lays in Norwegian arms. Lukas knows he should probably return to the master bedroom, to Berwald and to their bed, to comfort the man physically to calm him mentally. Lukas knows that but in this moment Freja is so much more important: his Swedish lover would be there the next night; their little girl would not be.

"He loves you," Lukas murmurs in her hair. "Your father is doing this because he truly believes this is what is right and he loves you so much. You will be granted a noble title separate from your father; your children will be married advantageously, they will never want for anything-"

"They will have you and Papa though," Freja says quietly, "when I'm gone."

Touché.

"Lulu?"

"Yes beloved?"

"I have a- oh!" The young woman blushes in embarrassment and Lukas half smiles through his misery because he knows exactly what she's asking.

"Sex?"

"Don't say that!" she says in a high-pitched tone of shock, slapping his shoulder. The Norwegian does truly laugh at that because it's been so long since he's had something to laugh over, something beyond tears and pain and anger.

"Freja Erika- no, I am being serious, hush you- listen to me." At that she quiets, her big eyes looking up at him in a silent plead. He can sugar coat this or he can be honest; Freja silently communicates, in that way she's learned from him and her fathers, that she wants honesty. "It will hurt, the first time."

Her face is hid in his shoulder, her cheeks burning brightly. "I know that much," she manages.

Lukas pauses, thinking what else he should say. "I do not know if he will be a kind and gentle lover, or a normal man." Freja snorts. "I hope he is kind, for your sake."

"Is-" There's a pause where the woman takes a deep breath. "Is my father a kind lover? To you?"

He smirks, kissing her hair as a hand runs through it. "As kind as a lover as he is a father. I know your husband will never be as great a man as your father but you will only need to spend a few weeks with him before you are back in my arms in your father's house." A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Freja nods against his shoulder. Lukas sleeps in her bed for the night.

* * *

He's close, the sheets over their bodies and the fire burning in the room only making him that much hotter. Lukas sweats, hair sticking to his forehead, as Berwald continues thrusting, a hand on either side of the Norwegian head anchoring him. He meets his lover with his own hips, arms draped around the man's neck to steal breathless kisses before a Swedish hand snakes between them, pumping him. If only this could go on forever, this feeling of absolute ecstasy with his most precious lover.

A knock at the door is ignored by Lukas, Berwald barking out a, "What?", as his thrusting picks up pace, his hand moving to match it. The Norwegian has to fight back a moan that muffles the sound of whatever response his lover gets.

They skip a beat where Berwald seems to forget that they're in the middle of sex, blinking without seeing, before he replies to whatever had been said.

"Wait there."

Then the thrusting recommences, more desperate the way it had been after Freja had left with her new husband for Vienna. Lukas kisses Berwald deeply, not caring that it's feminine or sweet or romantic, not caring that he's being so open about his heart laid bare before the Swede. He ends up coming first, another kiss stifling his shouts until Berwald comes too, quickly, quietly, frantically. The larger man collapses on his smaller chest, their bodies sticky and sweaty.

Normally they'd lay like that for so long afterward, holding each other as their hearts slowed. Lukas loves laying in bed almost as much as the sex (almost), because that act is tender and loving and honest the way he and Berwald rarely allow themselves to be anymore, the way they once were. They wash each other's bodies, then lay in bed watching the other breathe, or rest with their fingers threaded together, palm to palm as they remember just the good that they've seen, the bad all forgotten in the truly perfect moment.

The knock comes again and that brings Berwald to life. "Hold on," he chides loud enough to be heard through the door, sitting and reaching across the bed for the washcloth in a basin of water. Gently he squeezes it out before washing Lukas's chest and thighs, the Norwegian smiling as he continues to come down from his high.

"Love you," he moans, sitting up and stealing a kiss from the stoic-once-more Swede. His response is a throaty groan before Berwald stands, washing himself quickly so that he can pull on his long purple robe.

"Stay under the sheets," Berwald commands, pulling the thick blanket up high so that Lukas can pull it over himself. That's when the Swede opens the door.

There's a shriek then a heavy sigh before Lukas can just make out around the bed's curtain a hug between father and daughter, reunited once more. The bed frame creaks and Freja's eyes snap open to Lukas.

"Lulu!" She throws herself on the bed, hugging him without regard for the fact that he is most obviously naked. Berwald sits on the edge of the bed, watching.

"Freja," Lukas groans against her forehead, kissing it before holding her tightly once more. His mask hasn't been fully placed on again but it's there, that little defense mechanism that he has only ever let Berwald see come down. It had hurt to let her go but it feels wonderful to hold her again in his arms.

* * *

When they ask about Austria Freja's eyes light up and though she spends most of her stories stating how much she had wished Berwald and Lukas could have been there, she seems to have adored the countryside and Vienna and all the places she had traveled to while on the Continent. Her sketchbook is filled with palaces and grand estates and courtiers in their formal garments. She seems to have enjoyed the Hungarian nation's company, Frau Edelstein appearing in a large number of notes and drawings and stories. Herr Edelstein seems to have only ever been present at dinner. The Swede though seems satisfied that Freja had enjoyed herself, and Lukas is glad.

When they ask about her husband she gets quiet, squirming with her hands in her lap the way she used to when tutors complained to her father that she was not learning at their speed. In those days Lukas would hold Freja while Berwald dismissed the tutors, replacing them with someone who would never dare reprimand his daughter. Now he cannot so easily remove difficulties from the young woman's life.

Lukas skips the formalities and asks strongly, "Did he hit you?" Freja's shock is a stronger indication than her assurance of the negative.

"No, of course not Lulu!"

The Norwegian shrugs. "I wanted to make sure," he says as if to Berwald, who nods.

"Understandable."

"Do men do that?" she demands incredulously, turning from one nation to the other, her eyes wide. Lukas once more marvels at how over-protected she is.

"Only the ones," her father says slowly, "not worthy of being called a man."

* * *

It's in how she moves, the sound of a chair shifting making her stiffen, a fork falling to the ground making her jump up in fright: he might not have hit her but Freja has been abused, Lukas has no doubts about it. They should have listened to Frau Edelstein, men never listen to their women. The Norwegian knows; he had been little more than Christen's bitch for years, a beautiful prize to be ignored.

Berwald rants at night, pacing the floors. His daughter, his beautiful, perfect, flawless daughter, so young, so sweet, so everything a young lady could be and should be, and that man ruined her. He's touched her and she cries when Lukas asks about intimate nights. He's yelled at her and she cries when she sees her father lose his temper with servants. He's not treated her like the goddess raised up on a pedestal the Swede holds his daughter up as and Lukas knows the overprotective father has killed men for much, much less.

She's no longer a child: that's what it comes down to when his lover final submits to the night, laying on his stomach, his cheek pressed again a Norwegian chest, eyes closed and arms encircling the torso beneath. The time when Freja was theirs and theirs alone has passed and they can never go back to those years, to those wonderful little moments of fear and happiness and promise. Freja grew and they grew with her, opening themselves up to her and to each other, allowing their hearts to be put out there, risking the pain for love.

Most nights Lukas holds Berwald yet there are nights, even now, where the Norwegian steals away to the young Swedish woman's room, holding her instead. Freja's afraid and Berwald's afraid and Lukas is afraid of admitting he's afraid.

She's no longer a child, and that only serves to remind them that she is mortal, that her life has a date it started on and a date it will end on. Never has Lukas prayed so much in his life, the once-pagan Berwald joining him in fervent requests to just let her stay pure, stay sweet, stay strong, stay with them forever.

After marriage comes children and the risk of death. Freja had been sickly for years, and their hearts are no longer as cold as ice. Like waiting for a gun to fire, the only question is when.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: This I worked on for months so I'm glad you guys have enjoyed it, it is much more a culmination of culture and gender than just historical events, which I love. The first scene I imagined of this was the opening of Chapter 4 actually, and between that and my Women up to 1900s class, all the female and gender norms got thrown in, aw yeah. I'm thinking of writing more with Freja because I love her and let's be real, she is kind of perfect; if you want more, let me know what, either 19th century or 21st, whatevs. :D

* * *

**Svea**

**5. **

The Kingdom of Sweden may have been bankrupted in buying gifts fit for a queen: there are 18 diamond necklaces, 18 sapphire bracelets, 18 sets of aquamarine earrings, 18 lapis and topaz tiaras, 18 antique books, 18 exquisite dresses, 18 pieces of art from great European painters, and 18 wishes written on small pieces of paper in a bottle hung on a gold chain. The letters are upright, deep blue, perfect; the words are Swedish.

« 1. I wish you eternal happiness.

2. I wish you will never leave me.

3. I wish you all the praise you are worthy of.

4. I wish you eternal beauty.

5. I wish you will never know pain.

6. I wish you all the comforts of life.

7. I wish you eternal joy.

8. I wish you will never cry.

9. I wish you all true friends.

10. I wish you eternal health.

11. I wish you will never knew hunger.

12. I wish you all quiet moments.

13. I wish you eternal companionship.

14. I wish you will never want for anything.

15. I wish you all the contentment with your children.

16. I wish you eternal peace.

17. I wish you will never know a world without me.

18. I wish you all the love I can give. »

Freja loves the wishes the most of her father's many gifts; Lukas loves Berwald's smile of sublime happiness.

* * *

Her father carries her to a chair by the lake, Lukas sitting at Freja's feet with his head in her lap. When she was smaller it had been her head in his lap, Norwegian hands raking through Swedish hair. Berwald stands off in the distance, skipping stones. Lukas cannot help but smile at the way the man's back moves.

"The doctor," Freja starts, coughing; Lukas kisses her knee. In the distance Berwald pauses before skipping another stone. "The doctor said, I shouldn't leave, bed unless, I had to." Her breathing is labored, her pauses have become normal, her illness strong this time. She no longer complains about the pain, the chills, the discomfort, because there is nothing the immortal Swede nor immortal Norwegian can do to take it away.

"This was a had to," a deep voice grumbles. Lukas nods.

"What do doctors know compared to us?" he jokes, sitting so that he can take the girl's hands in his, smiling a rare grin at her. "Father knows best, after all."

"Father and Lulu," she giggles and the Norwegian sits up so that she may kiss his nose.

In their countries modernization is finally taking hold. Young men are required to serve in the military, though there is no war. In a far away capital sexual acts between men have been made illegal. The days of sentimental longing for a united Scandinavia have come to an end.

And here, on a lawn chair by a hidden-away lake, Freja laughs. The day is beautiful.

* * *

The man smells of alcohol, though Lukas does not tell Berwald that; instead a hand to the chest stops the nation in his tracks, a flat voice informing him that Freja's husband has come to visit and that the couple must be left be. The Swede is huffy.

"My house," he mutters as he falls back on the mattress, his body heavy, exhausted. Lukas crawls over him, straddling his hips.

"My bed," he smirks and the man beneath him smiles something devious, hands grabbing Norwegian hips to flip them.

"My beloved," and then lips crash together.

* * *

A few weeks after the husband that no one can quite remember having liked leaves, the doctor comes out with news for Berwald and Lukas. The Swede collapses on the master bed when the doctor leaves, staring at his hand in shock.

One word leaves his mouth: "No." His whole body sags, his arms and head dropping in defeat. And Lukas, he can only stand and watch, arms wrapped about his waist, indifference on his face. If he were to move he is sure the tears would start and never stop.

* * *

Lukas helps Freja shuffle along the hall to her father's office, one arm around her waist, his other hand holding hers. His eyes keep drifting to her stomach, to where the next Oxenstierna grows inside her. They've three months left before the baby comes; Berwald has already made up his mind that Fate will be cruel, Iðunn will take from them the one who is not immortal.

The Norwegian is just bitter enough to believe him but after twenty years of watching Freja grow herself, from babe to woman, he is also now foolish enough to hope that this will all end well.

"I'm scared," a voice whispers in the dark. Freja hugs him and Lukas holds her head to his shoulder, eyes stinging as he kisses her hair over and over.

* * *

Having never realized how comfortable the master bed is, Lukas silently berates himself for having never insisted the mattress be moved to his room. Now though, he supposes, it doesn't really matter: this was the bed Freja was born on, and soon it would be the one she gives birth on.

Berwald lays beside her, holding her tightly in his arms. He'd promised hours ago to stay by her side, like he couldn't have been for her mother. They're in the way, should be outside waiting instead of here interfering, but Freja just won't let go and neither Berwald nor Lukas want to part from her.

There's a knock on the door.

"My Lord," a woman says, bowing deeply, before approaching. The tall man disentangles himself from his daughter, Lukas moving towards the center of the mattress as his lover moves towards its edge. The Norwegian allows himself now to become tangled up in the girl, watching with interest as the Swedish nation reads the letter.

The servant leaves when Berwald finishes, turning to the bed. Freja is the first one to speak, a quiet, fearful voice asking, "Papa?" and Lukas, who has known the man for a thousand years, can only just see the attempt at a bittersweet smile that is by far too bitter to be realized.

"I- I am sorry Freja." He swallows, a lump in his throat as the Norwegian watches the man's Adam's apple bob once.

The girl nods, her eyes falling from her father to the bedspread. "That is fine Papa," and tears start flowing. "I know you cannot-"

Strong arms sweep her up, holding her tight and taking Lukas by surprise as he is swept up too. He moves from the hug to let the man have this moment because the air has changed and they can both sense it after centuries, what it feels like before something life-changing occurs. Berwald holds Freja for what feels like an eternity before kissing her head. As he stands their hands drift apart until hers fall to the bed, his to his side, and the Swede turns and leaves, hiding his shameful face.

Lukas holds Freja close.

* * *

"Why?" Lukas asks, both men's eyes set on the nurse. Lukas's blue dress is the same color as Berwald's suit, gold accents reminiscent of the Swedish flag. Behind them the window looks out onto the dark landscape, useless in the winter months. Several decades have passed since he came to live here, some more pleasant than others.

"I cannot do it," the Swede replies, still looking forward. His tone is flat, the same voice he uses when discussing Timo leaving for Russia or speaking of the downfall of the Swedish empire. There's a little bit of humility, a lot of sadness, and something akin to acceptance that this is what their life is: out of their control.

"Yes you can, beloved," and Norwegian eyes look up into the set face that is only a little softer in the firelight. Those eyes will not leave the nurse at work.

"I gave my word," the Swede finally whispers in hushed Norwegian.

"You have never owed any mortal but Freja anything."

Sea-green eyes come down to look at him behind delicate glasses, as if Berwald is seeing his lover for the first time. Lukas knows there is no longer the occasional mortal lover; only one little girl came to win Berwald's love since the smaller nation has come to share his bed. And she meant everything to them so he lets Berwald wallow in guilt to release the pain. He cannot blame the Swedish nation that fell for the little girl that used to call him Papa, that he held and kissed and loved before she broke their hearts in the most delicate of ways, leaving them confused and seeking comfort in each other's arms in their time of need.

This mortal had been different.

"Yes, Lukas, I do."

"You are this child's grandfather," he says, growing indignant. Why must the largest nation always be so stubborn in all the most annoying of ways?

"I know, beloved."

"Then why?" He's still yet to answer the original question, or even to look at Lukas, really look at him liked he normally does. But then Berwald sighs, his whole body turning to face the Norwegian, taking him in with sad eyes that are almost defeated. "What duty do you owe that man, that asshole?"

"Her marriage contract," Berwald starts, hand on a window sill as he looks out into the darkness beyond, "promised he would take charge of any sons after the age of five. I cannot keep a child, love him, if I am to give him away."

"Would you have let him take without care her sons when Freja was alive?"

Berwald shrugs despite knowing the answer. "Nothing else mattered, so long as I held Freja. It was the only way she could stay with us, here." Lukas has not left Sweden-Norway since the union began; for years now the larger man has stayed instead with him, in the country where he is all-powerful. "I think she wished to hide from the world; she never said."

The nurse lifts the baby from the cradle, rocking it back and forth. Lukas hates the child already.

"Before she gave birth the letter came, saying her husband had returned to Stockholm. There were already whispers that he was unfaithful; she could not be allowed to hear those. I told him I would give him his child, from Freja."

"Because she is gone," Lukas states flatly.

"She is gone," Berwald agrees. "I promised to care for that child, beloved, but I cannot lose another person I love." They watch the nurse approach, cradling the child in her arms, before bowing to Berwald and leaving with the bundle. Large arms take the smaller nation in, holding him carefully with a hand threaded through his long hair. Lukas almost seems to disappear in his arms, his body so small and Berwald so big. The nurse lets the door close behind her. "Did she live long enough to name the child?" Lukas shakes his head. "Then what will you name him?" he asks quietly.

"Emil," the name leaves his lips before he can stop himself. Berwald nods, pulling back to inspect the Norwegian's face. Lukas takes in his lover as well, so interesting to him, sad and defeated but still filled with love for the daughter they had lost. His eyes are soft, showing the small lines he has around them, his mouth hinting at the despair in his heart. The sight makes Lukas's own heart race, to see his lover so injured yet so in love like this. Gentle lips come down to kiss his, Lukas sighing at the touch because it's better than sobs.

"I cannot imagined you without Freja," Lukas admits. Without looking up Berwald's frown becomes lopsided, showing his agreement.

"Neither can I, beloved."

* * *

They promise they will move on, forget the pain and the anguish. Freja was gone, her life had left her while Lukas cradled her in his arms. The dead cannot be brought back to life, and so they move on.

The cracks form then, starting at the small funeral that only they and Frau Edelstein attended, the Hungarian returning with the baby boy to Stockholm the next day. Then at meals where a once-happy girl sat between them, or after when the piano is silent and they retire early to bed. On days where the sun is clear the horses remain in their stables. On days where rain falls the chess board is left forgotten. When the servant finds half-finished embroidery Berwald screams to burn it; Lukas pries it from the servant's hand instead and starts hiding things that afternoon, secrets he's never kept from the Swede before.

Love just isn't love when Freja is no longer there. So much of how they had changed had come from her, how they learned once more to be open, to be honest, to be silly, to laugh with abandon, to smile just because. Twenty years are undone immediately, and like that the joy and happiness evaporate.

Tonight Berwald sighs as he sits on the edge of the bed, hands covering his eyes as he recites a forgotten prayer to gods they should no longer believe in. Not that Lukas blames him; even the Norwegian, the strongest Christian of the five Nordic immortals, hasn't been able to pray since Freja's death. What god could take someone so pure from them? The day Freja died, Lukas decided all gods were dead too.

Finished Berwald removes his glasses, shifting to lift his legs to the mattress, settling in under the sheets as a fire roars. Lukas crawls beneath the sheets to lay beside him, placing his head on the Swedish chest, an arm encircling him and holding him close. Their bodies are too stiff for all that they have done together and he blames both of them for that, but they make no effort to fix the situation. They don't have the energy left to keep on fighting.

They'd promised they would move on, that all would be well, that they would be fine. It was only ever a lie and Lukas falls asleep to murmurs in his mind of independence from Sweden, because what was keeping him here now?

All was supposed to be well.

* * *

**After. **

It's well after one in the morning when he opens the door, Berwald entering with two bundles in his arms. "I'm sorry," he says for what must be the dozenth time today, coat dripping water as the rain pounds against the house.

"Stop it," Lukas chides angrily, taking the raincoat once his former lover removes it. "Into the kitchen, I made us coffee."

"Thank you," a soft voice says as he follows behind the Norwegian.

When he turns back with the two mugs of coffee Berwald is already seated at the kitchen table, removing with great care a small bundle from her carrier. Placing the second mug on the table Lukas asks, "How did this happen?" Berwald sighs as he shifts.

"Car crash, in Göteborg." The man had called hours earlier, driving the four hours to Lukas's house just outside Oslo. "My name was the next of kin."

"I would have thought they'd stayed in Austria," the Norwegian comments lazily.

"They came back, during the war." Lukas nods.

"Parents?"

"Dead on arrival," Berwald says flatly. "I'm all- I'm all she-" He falls silent as the baby in his arms squirms. "Sorry," the Swede says quickly, sitting forward and digging through the other bundle he'd brought with him, a bag of supplies. "She's probably hungry, I have the stuff in-"

"Do you want me to-" and Lukas becomes quiet at that, not sure what he can do. Berwald has Peter, raised him since he was small. Lukas had had Emil, centuries earlier, but he'd already been a small child when the Icelander had come into his brother's care. "Berwald?"

"Here." They shift, the Swede handing him the small child. Instincts from over a century earlier kick in, Lukas holding the girl as her father prepares a bottle before he sits, taking the baby back to feed her.

In the kitchen Lukas finds himself sitting, watching with amazement how quickly Berwald falls back into his role as father, his gaze intense on his newfound daughter's face. "What's her name?" the Norwegian whispers in Swedish.

The man looks up, smiling bittersweetly. "Freja." For a forgotten grandmother; how Fate teases and tortures them.

Lukas thinks quietly, playing with a spare baby bottle and watching the coffee go cold. When the girl finishes he cleans the used bottle, Berwald holding her over his shoulder to burp, his hands so large compared to her small body.

The Norwegian follows slowly up his stairs, the babe falling asleep in his arms, while Berwald goes ahead and sets up the bassinet in the master bedroom. The Swede then settles the girl in, the two leaving the room quietly to talk in the dark hallway.

"In the morning we can go to Ikea," Lukas suggests and he sees in the dark Berwald smirk, "and get her things. I'll call Emil at lunch but he should be fine with me moving things from the spare room into his bedroom for now. After we'll-"

Arms encircle him, pulling him close, as Berwald kisses him deeply. Lukas's hands move to go around his neck, pulling the man down. In this moment it doesn't matter that Lukas is on-again, off-again with Christen; when he tells the Dane he's chosen the Swede, Christen will fight before ultimately relenting, that battle lost centuries earlier.

As for Berwald, things had been strained between him and Timo for years now, Peter adding to the stress because Timo wasn't ready for a family the way his husband had been. Peter!, Lukas hadn't thought about how he would figure into this, but lips to his nose stop his beating heart because Berwald had already told him months ago that he knew he had to do right by his son, that Timo and he had agreed that separating was best. Timo hadn't been ready for children; Lukas and Berwald had already raised and lost a little girl, together.

And now her namesake sleeps in the room they will share once more.

"I love you," Berwald sighs against him, a wet cheek pressing against his forehead.

"I love you too," Lukas whispers into the night.


End file.
